Chapter 2

A fickle heart! Let subtler poets sing Of changeless love and all that kind of thing, Of hearts in which a passion never dies-- _My_ heart's as fickle as the summer skies Across whose face the changing cloud-forms wing.

Unfailing loves unfailing troubles bring. I love to touch on Cupid's harp each string, Though each unto my questioning touch replies A fickle heart.

So, 'twixt some thirty loves I'm wavering, To each the same unstable vows I fling, Reading the first glad gleam of love's surprise In thirty pair of brown and azure eyes, Finding in all the same thought answering; A fickle heart.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. _Columbia Spectator._

~My Lady goes to the Play.~

With the link-boys running on before To light her on her way, A-lounging in her sedan goes Belinda to the play.

In patch and powder, puff and frill, From satin shoe to hair, Of all the maids in London town I wot there's none so fair!

From Mayfair down along the Strand To Covent Garden's light, Where Master David Garrick acts In a new rôle to-night,

The swinging sedan takes its way, And with expectant air Belinda fans, and wonders who To-night there will be there.

Sir Charles, perhaps, or, happy thought, Flushing thro' her powder, He might come in--beneath her stays She feels her heart beat louder.

The place, at last! The flunkies set Their dainty burden down, "Lud, what a crowd!" My Lady frowns And gathers up her gown.

ENVOY.

Alack for human loveliness And for its little span! Where's Belinda? Here, quite fresh, Are still her gown and fan!

ARTHUR KETCHUM. _Williams Literary Monthly._

~Confession and Avoidance.~

They say that you're a flirt at best, And warn me to beware: your glances Would make, they say, a treach'rous test By which to gauge a fellow's chances. And yet--I love you so! a throng Of passions bid me speak to-day. Ah! darling, tell me they are wrong! Are you as heartless as they say?

Am I? well, so I have been told, Though never yet have I confessed it; But you, sir, seem so very bold That I--well, I admit you've guessed it. Alas! 'tis true I'm heartless; yes, They're right, but only right in part; The reason, dear, is--can't you guess? Because--because you have my heart.

JOHN ALAN HAMILTON. _Cornell Magazine._

~Clarissa Laughs.~

Clarissa laughs. I plead in vain, She hears my suit with sweet disdain, When I remind her--speaking low-- That once she did not flout me so, She asks me--do I think 'twill rain? Then when in anger I am fain To leave her, swear I've naught to gain By staying, save th'increase of woe, Clarissa laughs.

Yet when I beg of her to deign To answer, give it joy or pain, She smiles. So then I cannot go, For with her smiles my love doth grow. Yet when I press my suit again, Clarissa laughs.

RUTH PARSONS MILNE. _Smith College Monthly_.

~'Mid the Roses.~

'Mid the roses she is standing, In her garden, waiting there; Roses all about her glowing, Roses shining in her hair.

May I, dare I, ask the question Which my heart has asked before? Then I falter, "Can you love me, Darling?" I can say no more.

Now the petals fall more slowly: One has lodged upon her dress; Now her eyes she raises gently; Meeting mine, they answer "Yes."

F.T. GEROULD. _Dartmouth Literary Monthly_.

~A Society Martyr.~

Rustling billows of silk 'neath the foam of old lace, A half-languid smile upon each listless face,-- A dreaming of roses and rose-leaf shades,-- A medley of modern and Grecian maids. Such clatter and clink One scarcely can think Till he spies a shy nook where he lonely can sink,-- For how can a bachelor be at his ease With such chatter and gossip at afternoon teas?

Fair Phyllis's gold lashes demurely cast down, Her face in sweet doubt 'twixt a smile and a frown,-- A venturesome rosebud o'ertopping the rest Now lies all a-quiver upon her white breast, The curves of her neck Man's vow often wreck,-- She has the whole world at her call and her beck. So how can a bachelor be at his ease With such variant emotions at afternoon teas?

Behind sheltering palms, safe from gossips' sharp gaze, Is acted in mime one of life's dearest plays,-- Sweet Bessie's brown eyes raised beseechingly up, Her lips just released from the kiss of her cup, And Fred, I much fear, From small sounds that I hear, Is as bold as the rim of her cup,--and as near,-- And how can a bachelor be at his ease With such sights and such sounds at our afternoon teas?

Shrewd maters watch Phyllis and Bessie and Fred,-- Each smile and each look and each toss of the head,-- And wonder and ponder and figure and scheme, While fortune and fashion 'gainst love tip the beam. For Bessie's dark locks And Phyllis's smart frocks Are but snares to entrap the society fox. Pray, how can a bachelor be at his ease With such artful devices at afternoon teas?

JOHN CLINTON ANTHONY. _Brown Magazine_.

~O Mores!~

Cupid's bow is lying broken, Fallen on the ground, And his arrows all with blunted Points are strewn around. For to reach our modern hearts Powerless are the blind god's darts, From his rosy shoulders stripped; Since, to pierce the breasts so cold, Shafts must always be of gold, Arrows must be diamond-tipped.

ALBERT ELLSWORTH THOMAS. _Brunonian._

~Which?~

Blonde or brunette? Shall Ethel fair, My winter girl, with golden hair, Or Maud, whose dark brown eyes bewitch,-- My summer girl,--now govern? Which?

Shall cold Bostonianism rule? Shall Love teach Browning in his school? Or shall coy glances, passion-rich, Compel my fond allegiance? Which?

And yet the solving's really clear. For winter's gone and summer's here. I want no statue in a niche, So Cupid says, "Let Maud be 'Which!'"

W.C. NICHOLS. _Harvard Lampoon._

~Then and Now.~

When first we met she was three feet high, And three, I think, was her age as well, A touch of the heaven was in her eye; I cannot say she was very shy, (As you'll see by her actions by and by), But the way I behaved I blush to tell.

We met at a party, on the stair; She was decked in ribbons and silk galore, She smiled with a most bewitching air, And then, I'm afraid, I pulled her hair. You know you can't expect savoir-faire Of a cavalier of the age of four!

She only laughed with her subtle charm, And took it more sweetly than you'd have believed, But later she really took alarm-- When she wanted to kiss me I pinched her arm, And she ran away to escape from harm; At which, no doubt, I was much relieved.

She did not offer to kiss again; I saw her go off with another beau. She pretended to hold up her ten-inch train, And whispered low to her new-found swain. I was eating ice-cream with might and main,-- And that was some seventeen years ago.

I see her to-night on the winding stair, She replies with a smile to my sober bow; The palms lean lovingly toward her hair, And her foot keeps time to a distant air. I'm afraid she does not recall or care-- She does not offer to kiss me now!

Heigho! What a sad, what a sweet affair, What a curious mixture life seems to be! I am fast in the net of love, and there, With another man on the winding stair, Is the girl I love,--and I pulled her hair When she wanted a kiss at the age of three!

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. _Columbia Spectator._

~A Toast.~

Clink, clink, Fill up your glasses. Drink, drink, Drink to the lasses. Eyes that are blue, Lips that are sweet, Hearts that are true, Figures petite. Clink, clink, Fill up your glasses. Drink, drink, Drink to the lasses. Drink, for there's nothing so sweet as a maid is; Drink to the dearest of mortals, The Ladies.

HENRY MORGAN STONE. _Brunonian_.

~A Bit of Lace.~

It lay upon a pillow white, The framework of a beauteous sight Wherein its mistress laid a bright Ecstatic face, And when each night it proudly bore Her wavy wealth of "cheveux d'or" It seemed a very Heaven for The bit of lace.

But lace can from a pillow part And by a touch, of cunning art Adorn the casket of the heart, Where every grace, Half hidden by its witching fold, Seeks to betray a charm untold-- How envies each admirer bold The bit of lace!

Still maidens' mind and garments change, And so there comes a new exchange; The real Valenciennes finds a strange New resting-place, Where tiny feet and ankles hide, And where but for a shoe untied No human eye had e'er espied The bit of lace.

A crowded street, a sudden scare, A little rush, a lengthy tear, A snowy skirt that needs repair, Decides the case. And what each morn her footman missed Hung from a dainty, dimpled wrist, And ardent lovers fondly kissed The bit of lace.

* * * * *

This tale is incomplete, I know, But where else could the traveller go? Ah, it was fifty years ago All this took place. And nodding, in her noonday nap, Secure from every sad mishap, I see in Grandma's dainty cap The bit of lace.

_Red and Blue._

~A Song to Her.~

A song to a maid with eyes like stars; Lad, you can sing it. Any old tune to trip the bars, Any old voice to ring it; Love will wend it away to her; Love will mend it and pray to her; Love with his love will wing it.

A song to a maid, a song of songs Born in the singing Ever, oh! ever to love belongs; Ringing, ringing, ringing! Holly berry, a winter theme, Bursting cherry, a summer's dream, Love on love's pinions winging.

_Wrinkle_.

~Circe.~

Merry smiles and entrancing eyes, Words that are light as passing air. Lips that never disown disguise, Hearts that endeavor hearts to snare, Tongues that know not the way to spare, Babbling on in a thoughtless whirl; Would-be worshippers, O beware! These are the ways of the modern girl.

Faces fickle as April skies, Eyes where Cupid has made his lair; When they tempt you to idolize, Then for a broken heart prepare. What does she care for your despair, Striving peace from your life to hurl? Would-be worshippers, O take care! These are the ways of the modern girl.

Ribbons and laces, smiles and sighs, A knot of vermilion in her hair, Glances where veiled deception lies, A kiss, perchance, on the winding stair, Exquisite gowns and roses rare, Shimmer of silver, gloss of pearl-- Where is the heart, O woman, where? These are the ways of the modern girl.

ENVOY.

Fashion and pique her hours share, Nature and truth their standards furl, Fair as fickle, and false as fair, These are the ways of the modern girl.

_Columbia Spectator_.

~A Wish.~

Cupid laughs, nor seems to care How his shafts are wont to harrow. Ah! that I could unaware, Wound him with his golden arrow.

A. _Columbia Spectator._

~To Phyllis.~

I said your beauty shamed the rose's blush; You thought the simile was trite, untrue; But, oh, I saw each rose for pleasure flush To hear itself compared, dear heart, to you!

ALBERT PAYSON TERHUNE. _Columbia Spectator_.

~L'Amour, L'Amour.~

We catch the fleeting perfume of roses As the evening closes the golden day, And the rhythmic beating of waves in motion Comes from the ocean a mile away; In the west is dying the sunset's splendor, And twilight tender enfolds the land; Where the tide is flying a-down the river, And the grasses quiver, we silent stand.

In your radiant eyes the sun unknowing Has left his glowing to deeper glow, And your tender sighs sound far more sweetly Than the winds that fleetly and blithely blow And first all shyly your small hand lingers With trembling fingers within my own, The blushes slyly and swiftly starting, And then departing like rose-leaves blown.

Alas, the envious time is fleeting, But your heart is beating in time with mine, And Cupid's rhyme rings louder--clearer, As I draw you nearer, my love divine! In the twilight dim we have found love's tether, And are linked together, no more to part; While the white stars swing in a maze of glory, To hear the story that bares your heart.

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. _Columbia Spectator._

~Lines on a Ring.~

Oh, precious drop of crystal dew, Set in a tiny band of gold, Which doth within its little grasp A blue-veined finger softly hold-- Thou failest if thy radiant rays Are seeking--bold attempt 'twould be!-- To show a fraction of the love That beams from Edith's eyes on me.

LOREN M. LUKE. _Nassau Literary Monthly_.

~A Memory.~

Shadows up the hillside creeping, Gold in western sky, Meadow-brook beneath us keeping Dreamy lullaby.

Soft stars through the pine-trees gleaming-- Gems in dark robes caught-- Everything about us seeming With hidden meaning fraught.

Sweet dark eyes, upon me turning, Challenge if I dare, Vie with amorous sunbeams burning O'er her face and hair.

But a truce to idle musing-- That was long ago. Was she gracious or refusing? You may never know.

Winter's snows those fields are hiding 'Neath a robe of white, For another she is biding Tryst of love to-night.

I was only glancing over A book beloved of yore, When a sprig of mountain clover Fluttered to the floor.

IRVILLE C. LECOMPTE. _Wesleyan Literary Monthly_.

~The Soul's Kiss.~

Not your sweet, red lips, dear, Tremulous with sighs, Lest their passion dull love's rapture; Kiss me with your eyes.

Gleam on Cupid's wing, dear, At the least touch flies, Even lips may brush to dimness; Kiss me with your eyes.

Pain within the bliss, dear, Of those soft curves lies; Only love the soul's light carries; Kiss me with your eyes.

MAUD THOMPSON. _Wellesley Magazine._

~A Portrait.~

A slim, young girl, in lilac quaintly dressed; A mammoth bonnet, lilac like the gown, Hangs from her arm by wide, white strings, the crown Wreathed round with lilac blooms; and on her breast A cluster; lips still smiling at some jest Just uttered, while the gay, gray eyes half frown Upon the lips' conceit; hair, wind-blown, brown Where shadows stray, gold where the sunbeams rest.

Ah! lilac lady, step from your gold frame, Between that starched old Bishop and the dame In awe-inspiring ruff. We'll brave their ire And trip a minuet. You will not?--Fie! Those mocking lips half make me wish that I, Her grandson, might have been my own grandsire.

_Trinity Tablet_.

~A Picture.~

On spinet old, Clarissa plays The melodies of by-gone days. Forgotten fugue, a solemn tune, The bars of stately rigadoon. With head bent down to scan each note, A crimson ribbon round her throat, The very birds to sing forget As some old-fashioned minuet Clarissa plays.

King George long since has passed away, And minuets have had their day. Within a hidden attic nook Covered with dust, her music-book. Gone are the keys her fingers pressed. The bunch of roses at her breast. But still, unmindful of time's flight, With face so fair and hands so white, Clarissa plays.

EDWARD B. REED. _Yale Literary Magazine._

~Tildy in the Choir.~

Lines that ripple, notes that dance, Foreign measures brought from France, Reaching with a careless ease From high C to--where you please, Clever, frivolous, and gay-- These will answer in their way; But that tune of long ago-- Stately, solemn, somewhat slow (Dear "Old Hundred"--that's the air)-- Will outrank them anywhere; Once it breathed a seraph's fire. (Tildy sang it in the choir.)

How she stood up straight and tall! Ah! again I see it all; Cheeks that glowed and eyes that laughed, Teeth like cream, and lips that quaffed All the genial country's wealth Of large cheer and perfect health, Gown--well, yes--old-fashioned quite, _You_ would call it "just a fright," But I love that quaint attire. (Tildy wore it in the choir.)

How we sang--for _I_ was there, Occupied a singer's chair Next to--well, no prouder man Ever lifts the bass, nor can, Sometimes held the self-same book, (How my nervous fingers shook!) Sometimes--wretch--while still the air Echoed to the parson's prayer, I would whisper in her ear What she could not help but hear. Once, I told her my desire. (Tildy promised in the choir.)

Well, those days are past, and now Come gray hairs, and yet somehow I can't think those years have fled-- Still those roadways know my tread, Still I climb that old pine stair, Sit upon the stiff-backed chair, Stealing glances toward my left Till her eyes repay the theft; Death's a dream and Time's a liar-- Tildy still is in the choir.

Come, Matilda number two, _Fin de siècle _maiden you! Wonder if you'd like to see Her I loved in fifty-three? Yes? All right, then go and find Mother's picture--"Papa!"--Mind! She and I were married. You Were our youngest. Now you, too, Raise the same old anthems till All the church is hushed and still With a single soul to hear. Do I flatter? Ah, my dear, Time has brought my last desire-- Tildy still _is_ in the choir!

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES. _Wesleyan Literary Monthly_.

~A Memory.~

We sat in the lamplight's gentle glow, Alone on the winding stair, And the distant strains of a waltz fell low On the fragrance-laden air. I caught from her lips a murmured "yes," And the stately palms amid There came a blissful, sweet caress-- I shouldn't have--but I did!

I might forget that joyous night, As the months slip swiftly by; I might forget the gentle light That shone in her hazel eye; But I can't forget that whispered "yes" That came the palms amid, I can't forget that one caress-- I shouldn't have--but I did!

GUY WETMORE CARRYL _Columbia Spectator._

~The American Girl.~

The German may sing of his rosy-cheeked lass, The French of his brilliant-eyed pearl; But ever the theme of my praises shall be The laughing American girl, Yes, the jolly American girl.

She laughs at her sorrows, she laughs at her joys, She laughs at Dame Fortune's mad whirl; And laughing will meet all her troubles in life, The laughing American girl, Yes, the joyous American girl.

You say she can't love if she laughs all the time? A laugh at your logic she'll hurl; She loves while she laughs and she laughs while she loves, The laughing American girl, Oh, the laughing American girl!

S.F.P. _Campus_.

~Ballade of Justification.~

A jingle of bells and a crunch of snow, Skies that are clear as the month of May, Winds that merrily, briskly blow, A pretty girl and a cozy sleigh, Eyes that are bright and laughter gay, All that favors Dan Cupid's art; I was but twenty. What can you say If I confess I lost my heart?

What if I answered in whispers low, Begged that she would not say me nay, Asked if my love she did not know, What if I did? Who blames me, pray? Suppose she blushed. 'Tis the proper way For lovely maidens to play their part. Does it seem too much for a blush to pay If I confess I lost my heart?

What if I drove extremely slow, Was there not cause enough to stay? Such opportunities do not grow Right in one's pathway every day; Cupid I dared not disobey, If he saw fit to cast his dart; Is it a thing to cause dismay If I confess I lost my heart?

ENVOY.

What if I kissed her? Jealous they Who scoff at buyers in true love's mart. Who can my sound good sense gainsay If I confess I lost my heart?

GUY WETMORE CARRYL. _Columbia Spectator_.

~Perdita.~

'Twas only a tiny, withered rose, But it once belonged to Grace. The goody didn't know that, I suppose-- 'Twas only a tiny, withered rose, No longer sweet to the eye or nose, So she tossed it out from the Dresden vase.-- 'Twas only a tiny, withered rose, But it once belonged to Grace.

_Harvard Advocate_.

~Strategy.~

Some, Cupid kills with arrows, Some, with traps; But this spring the little rascal Found, perhaps, That he needed both to slay me; So he laid a cunning snare On the hillside, and he hid it In a lot of maidenhair; And I doubt not he is laughing At the joke, For he made his arrows out of Poison-oak.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. _Sequoia_.

~Canoe Song.~

Dip! Dip! Softly slip Down the river shining wide, Dim and far the dark banks are; Life is love and naught beside. Onward, drifting with the tide.

Drip, drip, from paddle tip Myriad ripples swirl and swoon; Shiv'ring 'mid the ruddy stars, Mirrored in the deep lagoon, Faintly floats the mummied moon.

Soft, soft, high aloft,-- Ever thus till time is done,-- Worlds will die; may thou and I Glide beneath a gentler sun, Young as now and ever one.

E. FRÈRE CHAMPNEY. _Harvard Advocate._

~A Rambling Rhyme of Dorothy.~

When ye Crocuss shews his heade & ye Wyndes of Marche have flede, Springe doth come, and happylye Then I thinke of Dorothy.

Haycockes fragrante in ye sun Give me reste when taskes are done: Summer's here, & merrylye Then I dreame of Dorothy.

Scarlette leaves & heapinge binne; Cyder, ye cool Tankard in; Autumn's come. Righte jollylye Then I drinke to Dorothy.

When ye Northe Wynde sweeps ye snowe & Icyclles hange all belowe, Then, for soothe, Olde Winter, he Letts me dance with Dorothy!

ARTHUR CHENEY TRAIN. _Harvard Advocate._

~The Prof.'s Little Girl.~

She comes to the Quad when her Ladyship pleases, And loiters at will in the sun and the shade; As free from the burden of work as the breezes That play with the bamboo is this little maid. The tongues of the bells, as they beat out the morning, Like mad in their echoing cases may whirl Till they weary of calling her,--all their sharp warning Is lost on the ear of the prof's little girl.

With a scarred-over heart that is old in the knowledge Of all the manoeuvres and snares of the Hall, Grown wary of traps in its four years at college, And able at last to keep clear of them all,-- Oh, what am I doing away from my classes With a little blue eye and a brown little curl? Ah me! fast again, and each precious hour passes In slavery sweet to the prof's little girl.

She makes me a horse, and I mind her direction, Though it takes me o'er many a Faculty green; I'm pledged to the cause of her pussy's protection From ghouls of the Lab and the horrors they mean; I pose as the sire of a draggled rag dolly Who owns the astonishing title of Pearl;-- And I have forgotten that all this is folly, So potent the charm of the prof's little girl!

Yet, spite of each sacrifice made to impress her, She smiles on my rival. Oh, vengeance I'd gain! But he wears the same name as my major professor, And so in his graces I have to remain; And when she trots off with this juvenile lover, Leaving me and the cat and the doll in a whirl, It's pitiful truly for us to discover The signs of her sex in the prof's little girl.

CHARLES KELLOGG FIELD. _Four-Leaved Clover._

~Gertrude.~

Fair Gertrude lives at Farmington, Perhaps you've seen her there; Her eyes delight in laughing light, Let gods describe her hair; Her figure--well, grave Juno ne'er Had half the supple grace Of Gertrude fair of Farmington-- Perhaps you know that place?

Beneath her lips there gleam two rows Of greed-inspiring pearls; Such rows of teeth the gods bequeath To but their choicest girls. For other things at Farmington I do not care a rap, Although it is a lovely place-- I've seen it (on the map).

I would the gods had given me Some mild poetic skill; In Gertrude's praise I'd sing for days, And volumes I could fill. Perhaps you think I love this maid-- In sooth perhaps I do; Well, If I did, I'd tell her-- But, by Jove, I'd not tell _you._

J.H. Scranton _Yale Record._

~My Politics.~

I am for gold--her golden hair Whose mesh my soul entrances; Caressing this, what do I care For national finances?

For silver, too--those silver tones That with her laughter rise; This wealth, thank God. no law or thrones Can e'er demonetize.

G.W. PIERCE. _University of Texas Magazine._

~The Summer Girl.~

A half-reclining form In a "sleepy-hollow" chair, A cloud of curls that storm About her beauty fair, Two laughing eyes that tell A shyly answered "Yes." A dainty hand to--well, Say simply to caress.